


Crow Hop

by tinyvariations



Series: The Purgatory Rodeo (Wynonna Earp Season One) [3]
Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: A little angst, F/F, a little fluff, and some heart eyes, post-episode processing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-06-08 18:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6868237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyvariations/pseuds/tinyvariations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Saturday night in Purgatory. Waverly is doing some last-minute party prep out at the homestead, and Nicole is up to her eyeballs in work. Neither, though, can seem to stay focused. An elaboration on 1x07 in three parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nicole

**Author's Note:**

> I loved that at the heart of their individual scenes in this episode was the symmetry of both characters stewing on their status as outsiders, albeit from different ends of the road. I wanted to play with that a bit, so there'll be three chapters with this one: two heavy on the processing, and one heavy on the heart eyes.

**Crow Hop (n.)**

> Stiff legged jumps by a horse. Sometimes a bucking bronco who is no longer trying hard to buck a cowboy off will only crow hop. A crow hop can also happen when a horse is trying to stop forward motion and the rider is handling the reins incorrectly.

* * *

_"Cause of death appears to be deep lacer-..."_

When the words on the medical report start to bleed into one another (again), Officer Haught closes her tired brown eyes before using her knuckles to rub at them absentmindedly. She supposes it isn't surprising that her eyes have started crossing -- it's the seventh time she's read through this file today alone, searching for a new angle, for any sliver of information she may have overlooked before. Three women are dead. That's a bad week for a big city, but Purgatory? That's a nightmare. And with no indication that the spree is over...she glances at the report once more, but the words have yet to rearrange themselves into something resembling English.

Leaning back in her chair, Nicole blinks lazily at the ceiling tiles, noting that the water stain on the tiles above the receptionist's desk hasn't grown. Well, at least there's one positive for the Sheriff's Department this week. The bullpen is quiet tonight. Neadley is off-duty -- perks of being the Sheriff. Two deputies are out in the county on patrol. But it's Saturday night; it's just a matter of time before a drunk and disorderly call comes in like clockwork. For now, though, she's left holding down the fort alone.

With a sigh, Nicole stands, shaking the stiffness out of her limbs and rolling her neck like a runner before a heat. Her eyes clearly aren't ready to cooperate, and her limbs ache after hours spent hunched over her desk, analyzing case notes and crime scene photos. Grabbing her coat, she wanders out of the bullpen, needing to get some blood flowing into her extremities. Just this side of the lobby, she spies the empty break room and decides to make a pit stop. There's a pot of coffee on the warmer. Considering she's the only person in this part of the building and has been for the past, oh, two hours, she knows this coffee will be awful, but she just can't bring herself to make the effort to brew a fresh pot. In the end, the substance she pours into her mug has a consistency more like engine sludge than coffee, and although she shudders at the sight, it doesn't stop her from grabbing the mug and heading out the glass doors of the lobby. Perks of the job, right? 

The cold slaps her in the face as soon as she clears the door. It takes her a moment to catch her breath, the frigid air biting at her lungs. Full dark has settled over Purgatory, the easy beauty of twilight having passed by unnoticed while Nicole had her head buried in case files. Reflexively, she raises her mug to her lips, the steam warming her rapidly chilling face, and takes a sip.

_Christ...that's about one step above motor oil._

She sputters but manages to keep from spitting the coffee back out, a feat that may as well be considered a miracle. Steeling herself, she takes another sip. It goes down easier this time, so she continues. Rolling her neck again, she lets the cold wake her body and lets the heat of the "coffee" take the edge off the cold. Yeah, this break is just what she needed -- a few minutes away from death to clear her mind. 

Nicole gazes skyward, searching for patterns among the stars to replace the blood spatter clouding her vision. The night is cloudless, the stars incandescent. She finds Orion without even trying, the hunter standing strong as always in the winter sky. Following the line of stars like her father taught her, she searches the sky until she finds Perseus perched low near the horizon, readying for his ascent. Nights like these always remind her childhood nights spent in a sleeping bag in the bed of truck, her father pointing out the stars, sipping whiskey out of his flask while she sipped hot chocolate from her Batman thermos. 

Her breath plumes in the cold, and she closes her eyes. It's a mistake. Without the stars to distract her, her mind wanders to the one place she's been trying to avoid -- Waverly. 

_Shit._

Nicole loves being a cop, and working a Saturday night shift is par for the course. Tonight, however, where she **is** isn't the issue, not really. It's where she **isn't.**

Back on Tuesday afternoon, she had drawn the short straw in the bullpen and had to run out to pick up lunch for the guys over at the diner. At that point in time they'd already caught two dead bodies; they were lucky to have time to eat at all, honestly. Sitting on the stool at the counter, waiting on the kitchen to prepare enough food to feed an army, Nicole had been looking at her phone mindlessly in the half-empty diner. It had been on the late side by the time she left the station, so most of the lunch crowd had come and gone already, but a handful of customers remained. If anyone had looked at her, they would have assumed she was killing time on her phone. In reality, Nicole had been running through one of her favorite exercises -- without looking, she was methodically selecting each customer in the place, recalling basic descriptors and their location relative to one another. Without looking. It's a cop habit, one that she's proud of. She had just gotten to the gentleman in the corner with the denim overalls and terrible comb-over when off to her right she heard Waverly's name. 

Subtly angling her body, she chanced a glance out of the corner of her eye to the table closest to the counter on her right hand side. 

_Ah...Purgatory's Plastics. Great._

There were two of them: a bottle blonde who looked persistently put out with everyone and everything, and, surprise, another blonde. Both dined on salad and Diet Coke, a pack of cigarettes sat within easy reach for a post-meal treat. Figures. Nicole didn't know their names; she hadn't had to interact with them in the line of duty yet, thankfully, but she has seen them in here before, the quintessential mean girls that seem to show up in every town. 

"I can't believe Waverly's throwing me an engagement party Saturday night. Like...where has she been?" scoffed Blonde #1, her tone the equivalent of a verbal eye roll. Nicole dubs her HBIC.

With HBIC having given the green light, Blonde #2 joined in. "I know right? C'mon, Steph, you can't seriously be thinking about going! I mean...it’s Waverly, but she's still an EARP. And it's at the Murder House! Having an engagement party there will probably curse your whole marriage or something. Do you want to risk that?"

HBIC responded, "I figured I'd do her a favor and grace her with my presence. Chrissy is going with me. You and Sonja don't have to go if you don't want to. None of the other girls she invited are going to go, either. It's not like this is my real engagement party, anyway -- we're still on for our girls night in the city next weekend. No freaks allowed."

At this point, a shit-eating grin bloomed on Blonde #2's face, and Nicole found herself gripping the counter so hard her knuckles turned white, trying desperately to maintain control over her emotions. If it wasn't for the waitress, who chose that moment to bring out the bags with Nicole's food, she may have ended up doing something she'd come to regret. Instead, she paid for the food, clenched her jaws, and shot a cold glare at the ladies as she passed on her way out of the diner, lacing it with as much authority as she could muster. It was the look she gave to perps. The lackey looked up as if she had felt the chill but looked away quickly at the fierceness of the deputy's gaze. HBIC never even noticed.

After she delivered lunch to the bullpen, Nicole returned to her desk, but her own bagged burger sat untouched. After all that, she found she had lost her appetite. 

Sighing, she opens her eyes and looks at the stars again. It's been four days since the diner. The anger had boiled hot and sweet for awhile. But now, mostly she's left with a mixture of dread and hurt. It's easy to be angry with Waverly's friends for their general shittiness. There's even a moment or two where Nicole feels her anger turning to Waverly herself for keeping such company, but that thought goes just as fast as it comes. Small town. Limited options. 

And that's really the root cause of some of her hurt. Even though she's been here closing in on six months now, Nicole is an outsider. She doesn't know most of these people, and although she's earning a good reputation in her professional capacity and working herself into routines here in town, she's not truly been accepted as one of their own yet. Hell, she could be here five years and still be considered an interloper. It's the nature of the small town mentality -- they're cliquish as all get out. Not to put too fine a point on it, but being the outsider in a place like this, well, it’s lonely. Sure, Saturday night shifts are part and parcel of working in law enforcement, but Neadley likes to assign her this schedule because unlike some of the young guys on the force, she doesn't complain about it. And why would she? It's not like her dance card is full. At least when she's working she doesn't have time to lament her loneliness. 

The fact that Waverly planned a party and deliberately excluded Nicole, though...that's the kicker. Was she ever in the running for an invite at all, or is this a Purgatory-born only affair? Who knows. Obviously she isn't interested in spending time with the girls from the diner. Attending an engagement party for HBIC seems like torture poorly disguised under a thin veneer of glitter. Lipstick on a pig and all that. But spending an evening with Waverly? Laughing and drinking and just having fun? 

She sighs and sips her coffee again. 

_Heaven._

And if the other ladies dared to repeat the same bullshit from the diner in front of Waverly herself? Well. Her jaw clenches and her hands itch at the thought. She’d take an inordinate amount of pleasure putting them in their place. 

_Yeah, that's definitely a motivating factor._

The ferocity of the instinct to protect Waverly takes Nicole a little off guard. She's a cop. A huge part of her job is to protect the people around her. Protecting people is just what she does -- it's who she is. But with Waverly it's like that impulse got jacked up on steroids and entered the Ms. Universe contest. 

She watches a plane move across the night sky above, the slow blink of a light on the wing allowing her to track its trajectory through the atmosphere. A shiver runs through her. 

The world can be an ugly place. It can be cold and cruel and senseless; she sees it every day. Christ, just look at the files on her desk. Every cop has a secret, though. They all have something that keeps them grounded, something that reminds them of all of the things right in this world. Couldn't do the job without it -- it's too easy to get lost in the darkness. The most potent talisman Nicole's ever seen just happens to be the smile of one Waverly Earp. It is sunshine incarnate. It is pure; it is beautiful. And it's so goddamn warm. She finds herself bending towards Waverly like a plant bends toward the sun. Who can argue with a biological imperative?

Here she is, standing outside the cop shop, a half-full mug of motor oil mocha in her hands on a cold Saturday night. Waverly is miles and miles away, and yet Nicole finds herself warming like she's on a beach in August. 

Nicole shakes her head, a grin pulling at the corners of her mouth. 

_That's all Waverly._

She yanks the glass door open, striding through the now sweltering lobby and back to the dingy break room, where she ditches the remainder of her drink down the drain and leaves her mug in the sink. The coffee pot in the corner gurgles once, and Nicole glares at it. 

_That's what I thought._

Back in the bullpen, she returns her coat to the rack by the door before settling back into her chair and eyeing the files on her desk. The fresh air has done its work -- her brain is firing on all cylinders again. The crime scene report from victim number three is sitting on top, begging for a fresh read, but Nicole hesitates to pick it up, not quite ready to abandon the sunshine and face the darkness again. Part of her wants to abandon her post and ride patrol, and if perhaps this patrol happens to take her out past the Earp property, well, that is just a coincidence...

She shakes her head, trying desperately to rid herself of that notion before it takes root. As a compromise, instead of giving into temptation, she turns her cop brain on Waverly. A critical part of being successful in law enforcement is the ability to read people and situations and to be able to assess and analyze them both thoroughly and quickly. So, how about a quick exercise in analysis on Waverly? Hell, maybe it'll help her get in the right headspace to delve into the players in this murder case.

_Or it's just an excuse. But whatever, Nicole._

Mean girls aside, in her dealings around town, Nicole has noticed that by and large, people love Waverly. She's practically the town mascot. It's not a role she fell into easily, though. Given her history -- the death of her father and sister, the years spent in the shadow of Wynonna's very public rebellion, and the general town assumption that the entire Earp family is a little off their collective rocker -- it's amazing that she's as popular as she is. But it's not luck. Nicole has watched her when they've crossed paths around town; she's observed how she interacts with everyone from the town drunk all the way up to Sheriff Neadley. No, it's not luck. With the deck stacked against her at an early age, Waverly learned how to play a role from the get go, and she is damn good at tailoring herself to the people she's with. In order to survive the small town life, she became a chameleon, her survival mechanism helping her blend in to her surroundings until the townsfolk started to forget her origins. 

From what Nicole has been able to observe and deduce, Waverly has made herself what other people wanted. 

The thing about playing the chameleon, donning costume after costume and playing part after part -- it can be hard to remember which one's real. 

Wynonna's return three months ago seems to have been the shout that triggered an avalanche, in retrospect. It's like Waverly can no longer be bothered to remember her lines. She's worn her unease with the whole thing on her sleeves at times. Nicole remembers back to Waverly's interactions with Champ at Shorty's memorial. It's like she was up on stage and he was giving her her cue, but she had memorized the lines from the wrong play. 

_Thank God Waverly cut him loose...finally._

Whatever her involvement with Wynonna and Dolls in this Black Badge business, it's been fascinating for Nicole to witness Waverly coming and going into the station, usually with a stack of books or papers under her arms, enveloped in a new air of confidence and purpose. She's coming into her own, and watching this process unfold is nothing short of captivating for Nicole. The party thing -- this is a blip on the radar. Waverly's still working things out for herself. 

_But when she figures it out…_

When Waverly figures it out, when she sees herself and the world around her clearly for the first time in god knows how long, Nicole will be there waiting. 

Another long-suffering sigh escapes her lips, and she reaches under her collar to rub at a stiff muscle in her neck. 

It's one thing to intellectually understand the process, but that doesn't mean she has to be thrilled about waiting. So, instead of spending her Saturday night in the company of Waverly Earp, she's spending the night with case files and crime photos. And maybe having just a tiny little pity party of her own. Hell, maybe if she was better at this chameleon game herself, she could figure out what it is Waverly might want in her, and then maybe she’d be at that stupid party herself. 

There's a knock at the door, and Nicole starts.

Wynonna stands in the doorway, an open bottle of whiskey in her hand, and by the looks of it already on her way to drunk. "Saturday night. I'm the town pariah with 10 years of bad deeds and social suicides to make up for...what's your excuse?"


	2. Waverly

_It’s just not quite…_

Waverly Earp stands on an old red folding chair in the doorway of her foyer, the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth, fingertips outstretched -- the picture of determination. She gathers her energy and a deep breath and makes one last attempt to get things right. Pushing up onto her tiptoes, there’s a moment where her weight shifts too far toward the edge of the chair, and for a heart-stopping moment she feels cold fear, sure that on the verge of completing her task, she’ll have the rug ripped out from beneath her, so to speak. But the chair settles, her world calms, and although the extra burst adds a mere inch to her reach, it’s enough. Pulling back, she surveys her handiwork. 

_Perfect._

The right end of the streamer hangs higher over the entry -- so maybe...probably...it’s like two whole centimeters higher, but whatever. She’s made three passes through this doorway in the last thirty minutes, and with each successive lap the infinitesimal asymmetry had become more and more apparent until she just couldn’t stand it anymore. Hence standing on a chair in her foyer in her party dress. 

The timer in the kitchen dings, signaling an end to the cupcakes’ stint in the oven, and Waverly hops out of the chair, dress be damned. She swipes the oven mitt from the counter and opens the oven door, flinching away from the wall of warmth before reaching in and yanking the trusty tin out of the depths. The crowns are shiny. A few are blemished with thin rivulets of red liquid, the only outward indication that these aren’t just standard issue chocolate cupcakes. No ma’am. She feels the smile creep onto her face, and the can’t resist. She pulls the tray closer, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. The smile grows. Her eyeballs might roll back into her head a little bit. Before she can ruin any of the cupcakes with drool, she pulls back and sets the tin down on the counter. The Ipod in the den moves on to a K-pop tune, and Waverly shimmies without conscious thought as she stands in the kitchen, her hands on her hips. 

What a difference a day makes. The countertops sparkle (or as close as the old things can reasonably get, anyway). Honestly, seeing empty space on them at all is a feat. It may not be long-lived, but for today at least she claims victory in the endless battle against the [mountain] of dirty dishes Wynonna leaves like roadkill in her wake. Waverly's faded leather boots, the ones Wynonna refers to as her 'shit-kickers,' are no longer leaning against the wall by the back door. It's just as well. 

She wears them to work out on the back forty; it's not like she needs to wear them tonight. They'll be fine in their new home, shoved into the tiny storage closet underneath the stairs with half of the other things she'd dragged out of the living room.

_I don't think they'd go with this dress anyway..._

The music floating in from the den slows, turns melancholy. In a flash of gold, Waverly whirls out of the kitchen and snatches up the device, hitting fast-forward with perhaps a little more vigor than the situation requires. An appropriately saccharine song begins to play. Satisfied that it's fittingly upbeat for the occasion, she spins in place, facing the room. The silhouette she cuts looks more four-star general than barmaid, her hands place authoritatively on her hips, lips compressing into a determined line, and eyes sweeping the scene in front of her. 

The familiar clutter of her home is nowhere to be seen. Her research books are upstairs, dumped unceremoniously into a pile on the floor of her closet like a sack of potatoes instead of teetering dangerously in daddy's favorite chair by the hearth. The new throw pillow, though, looks homey. She considers it a minor miracle that the store had had a handful of cute ones -- on clearance, no less. Of course she had been forced to keep them in the back of her Jeep until earlier today, out of Wynonna's sight. Just in case. She eyeballs the new pillar candles dotting the room, pleased with their placement.

_Pillows? Check. Candles? Check. New paper lanterns? Check. Fancy tablecloth? Check._

Turning her head to the left to evaluate the impromptu buffet table, she continues.

_Snacks? Check. Special punch? Check. Flowers?_

She snakes a hand out to spruce a sagging flower stem in the carefully arranged bouquet before stepping back and eyeing it critically. 

_Check. Not bad, Waverly. Not bad._

With one more quick glance around the room, a smirk slowly forms on her face. Hours and hours of hard work are coming to final fruition, and it's difficult not to feel pleased with the enormity of the effort and of the transformation. 

_This place is almost unrecognizable._

The smirk falters slightly at the thought before righting itself, albeit a little more stiffly. Intending to ice her cupcakes with her homemade buttercream, Waverly drifts back into the kitchen. As she nears the now-cool tin, instead of picking up the bag, her eyes are drawn to the window behind the sink. It's full dark outside now, turning the glass into a mirror. She finds herself face to face with her own reflection. She has taken extra care with her appearance tonight, fretting over everything from the exact shade of red lipstick to whether or not to go with a sophisticated up-do or the loose and wild straight look. 

_Face? Check._

The eyes in the glass look back unflinchingly, scrutinizing, judging. With a blink, her vision shifts focus. The reflection fades, replaced by an unimpeded view of the Earp property. Snow covers the ground, an uneven blanket of white perching softly atop the land of her ancestors. It's a clear sky tonight, and enough moonlight reflects off of the powder to allow her to see all the way to the fenceline. That one post that daddy had swiped with his tractor when she was a child is still standing. Whomperjawed...but standing. She smiles softly to herself, and then sighs, suddenly weary.

_What am I doing?_

Waverly has spent an inordinate amount of her life fighting to be accepted by the people of Purgatory, fighting to attain an acceptable level of normalcy. In spite of being more a part of this town's fabric and history than just about anyone else here can lay claim to, she's had to continually pour herself into climbing into the good graces of everyone in town. And for what reason? Because of her family history? Her intelligence? Many had initially rejected her outright after...everything that happened...and it's been her life's work to keep that from happening again, to keep from feeling so ostracized again. After all, what kid doesn't want to be normal? 

As a child, she saw how the kids at school behaved, saw how the adults in town behaved, and in true Waverly fashion, she studied them, learned how they ticked, and acted accordingly. Waverly Earp, 2.0. Parts of her personality were suppressed, others enhanced. She stretched and remolded herself, and she got damn good at it. There wasn't anything cynical about it, not to Waverly. At the base of it all, to be different was to be lonely, and after losing so much so early, lonely wasn't something she was willing to live with at such a young age.

Another sigh escapes her lips. Maybe she's just out of practice. Or maybe she's done some growing up in the past few months. All Waverly knows is that whereas all of this -- the shiny veneer, the crafted script, the entire carefully orchestrated production -- used to come so easily to her, now it feels more like a chore than ever. The exhaustion creeps into her bones. She feels heavy. 

There's an unusual amount of self-awareness involved in her actions these days. Waverly's eyes are open. This engagement party is her chance to regain a little of the normalcy that has been lacking in her life as of late. Since Wynonna came back, she's been lax about playing the game. Instead of going to the city with the girls to hit up a club, she's been M.I.A. from any of the customary events. Instead, she's been running around with Wynonna, the town pariah, or skulking about at the trailer park, or making trips to the police station to consult with the Black Badge division. Or hanging out with Doc, whom most assume is yet another Wyatt Earp fanatic a little off his rocker. As much as she's relished these things, it's not the kind of dance card that will keep her in the good graces of the townsfolk. 

And they've noticed. Sure, a large chunk of the town is oblivious. They greet her at the bar like they've always done, and at least there she continues to be Waverly, the best barmaid in the county. But her friends -- with her recent lapse in attentiveness, the change to her routine -- yeah, her friends have noticed. They have begun to distance themselves, to whisper, to scrutinize, to look at her in a way that makes her feel like she's that lonely child again. Dumping Champ seems to have set off a whole new round of chatter. So here she is, changing her home, stretching her limbs, glammed up and ready to party. She's normal. She's not a freak. Life doesn't have to be all death and revenants, and she can prove it. 

It may be smoke and mirrors, but she's the one who knows the secret to how the woman doesn't actually get sawed in half. She knows how the magic is done. She can do this. 

Finding her reflection in the window again, her lips set into a determined line. The show must go on. The crooked fence-post stands unchanging in the background.

_I have work to do._

She nods her head, as if the motion itself will physically shake the thoughts gripping her brain, and attacks the task at hand with a single-mindedness she usually reserves for research mode. Her mind is blank, her breaths deep and even. One by one, her cupcake creations sprout intricate floral designs before her eyes. In spite of the focus, though, her toes still tap in time with the music floating in from the den, and she hums along to the distant melody, her sweet soprano filling the air and cocooning her in sound. It's done without effort, without thinking. Waverly isn't even aware she's doing it, but she does it nonetheless, almost as if it's an autonomic function of her nervous system like breathing or pumping blood. Nature will not be suppressed. 

When the final floret is in place, perfection itself, Waverly dumps the piping bag in the trash and rinses her hands of any wayward icing in the sink. After arranging them lovingly on the new glass platter she bought last week, she picks the whole thing up and turns towards the den.

And stops promptly in her tracks.

The skull grins at her from its place of pride up on the mantelpiece next to her trusty shotgun.

_Crap. How did I forget that?!_

Setting down the cupcakes once more, a little more forcefully than intended, she makes it to the mantel in three angry strides. Doc's words ring in her head, reminding her that it needs to be hidden, that no one should know she has it.

_No kidding. I can only imagine what would happen if the girls saw this thing._

Although, admittedly, there's a part of her that thinks it might be hilarious to see Stephanie freak out about it, and she smirks at the thought. Still, she reaches out and gingerly picks the skull up. It's heavy in her palm, and she can't stop herself from running her free hand over it reverently, inspecting it, studying it. 

With slow, careful steps, Waverly tracks through the doorway and over to the stairs before placing a foot slowly on the first step. She cradles the skull securely in her arms as she climbs. Her glamorous dress pinches uncomfortably. 

At the top, she hooks a right, and finds herself in front of a closed door. Her breath is shallow. Her heart drums in her ears. Shifting the skull to one arm, her free hand slowly, methodically reaches out to grasp the doorknob, and the cold metal sends a chill like death down down her spine. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, her muscles contract, and the doorknob turns in response. The hinges groan in protest, but the door opens nonetheless. 

Eyes still pinched tightly shut, Waverly stands on the threshold for several moments, trying to will away the nausea threatening to rise up in her belly. Inhaling deeply, she steels herself and strides into the room.

The air inside is musty, and the only light is an ethereal glow from the window on the far side of the room, all moonlight and snowflakes. Without looking, she reaches toward the wall by the door to flip on the light switch. The overhead bulbs bathe the room in soft light, chasing away the shadows and the nightmares. 

This is Willa's room. **Was.** Was Willa's room. And it's been...too long since she's been in here. It feels more like a tomb in this moment than the room of a vivacious young girl. Her heart constricts painfully in her chest.

Before she can lose her nerve, Waverly refocuses on her purpose and shuffles to the closet, where she knows a small bag of tools has been stashed. It's nothing special, but it does give her the tool she needs right now -- a Phillips screwdriver. The skull tucked safely into the crook of her left arm and the screwdriver in her right, she zeroes in on the only place she can think of to hide her skull from discovery: behind the vent in her sister's room. 

She places the skull on the table, atop a coloring book of ponies and next to a well-worn box of crayons, and it sits, staring intently as she works. In short order, the screws are removed and the vent cover pulled away from the wall. She eyes the dark recess, a pained smile lingering on her face. This is where Willa liked to hide her diary. Waverly remembers the time she had crept in here one evening, not too long after she had been put to bed in her own room down the hall. Willa had frozen in place like a deer in the headlights, her little arm elbow deep in the vent, replacing the diary after making her nightly entry. She had sworn Waverly to secrecy that night -- made her spit in her palm and shake on it and everything. It was their unbreakable bond.

Waverly never told.

Taking the skull into her hands once more, she draws it level with her eyes, studying it again. This...thing -- this is hers. She's the Keeper of the Bones. A vein of jealousy regarding Wynonna's role as the Earp Heir had festered beneath the surface for years. Waverly isn't proud of it, but it's undeniable. With her inheritance from Uncle Curtis, though, she has her own destiny, her own role. Not because of being born first or last or whatever, but because of who she is. Who she really is. Uncle Curtis believed in her. In HER. Not in Waverly 2.0, the popular girl around town. But in plain old Waverly Earp, the girl with the crazy family and the big brain. He believed in her brains, in her bravery. She feels her pride swell, unbidden. She strokes her thumbs across the skull's brow. 

She spots a small cardboard box beside the table, and making a quick decision, snatches it up before gently secreting the skull in its confines. Tonight she's not the Keeper of the Bones. She can't be. A frown mars her features. Placing the box in the vent, she pushes it an arm's length back, out of sight. Her hands are empty and shaking when she withdraws them. It takes her longer than expected to replace the cover on the wall -- the screws keep slipping through her fingers. 

The task at hand complete, Waverly takes a few unsteady steps back. Her eyes land on one of Willa's masterpieces taped haphazardly to the wall. It's a watercolor, depicting a colorful version of the Earp Homestead, full of the color and life only a child would perceive in their environs. Guilt hits her like a fist, and she feels her body overheating in panic. A few more steps and she's placed her forehead against the window on the far wall, the chill from the outside grounding her once more.

The window overlooks the front of the property where all is quiet, at least for now. The snow conspires to make the night suffocatingly silent, apart from the occasional hoot of an owl. Overhead, the sky is crisp and clear, and the stars in all their glory are bright and plentiful. 

Waverly sighs.

For once in her life she has a purpose, a calling. She's doing something important than slinging beer and pasting on a smile for the patrons of Shorty's. But who would believe her? She tries to imagine Steph her gaggle of Gretchen Wieners finding out about what she's been up to, and every scenario ends the same way -- being called just another crazy Earp. Like Wynonna. God, they think she's certifiable just for dumping Champ. Again. Unconsciously, she rolls her eyes and chuckles mirthlessly. At the end of the day, though, she fears being labeled a freak again, being made to shoulder that rejection and loneliness. Given the trauma of her childhood and the unstable years that followed, it's not surprising how much effort she put into seeking out stability and acceptance. But at what price? Once again, she finds herself hiding an intrinsic part of herself in hopes of compensating for her family history in the eyes of those around her. Tried and true though it is, this coping mechanism chafes and pinches more as the years go by, now more than ever. What once felt like a security blanket feels more like a noose, tightening slowly around her neck. 

_I wonder what Nicole's doing tonight._

The sudden shift in her train of thought should give her whiplash, but with Officer Haught crossing her mind on a steadily increasing basis these days, she’s learning to roll with it. Smiling softly, her forehead still resting against the chilled window pane, she revisits her decision to not invite the sheriff's deputy to tonight's party. As much as she may have wanted her here, to watch the officer let her hair down and have a good time, in the end she had ruled against it. Her reasoning is logical, as always. Dammit. In the time since they first met, Waverly hasn't seen the officer in a social setting at all, which leads her to believe that perhaps as a newcomer she doesn't have a large social circle. Throwing her in the mix with Purgatory's Regina George seems like the worst possible place to start. She can't imagine Nicole has much of a tolerance for that kind of b.s., anyway.

Beyond that, though, Nicole feels like -- a fresh start. Around her, Waverly feels the smoke and mirrors disappear. Unconsciously, her hand reaches up to touch the window, tracing patterns in the condensation. When their eyes meet, it's like Nicole sees right through her, anyway. She's sharp as a tack. Observant. Thoughtful. Every bone in Waverly's body tells her that she's safe. If the deputy had been around back when Waverly was taking all of her obscure online courses, what would she have thought? Champ made his opinions well known, saying something about her big brain and then promptly asking her to shut it off. The girls teased her relentlessly for her choice in coursework. When she would bring up the burial rites of the ancient Celts or how so many of our words had etymological roots in latin, they looked at her like she'd just suggested the replace their entire wardrobes with clothes from the thrift store down by the railroad tracks. And yet something tells her Nicole would have helped her make flashcards to practice her latin declensions, prompting her when she couldn't find the right one and gently teasing her when she got ahead of herself. 

There it is. That's precisely why Waverly doesn't want her here tonight, not with the girls who have known her her entire life. What would Nicole have thought of the version of Waverly she would see at this party? When she's not even sure she herself wants to see that version, god knows she doesn't want her to witness it, too. 

No. That can't happen. She can't ruin this...whatever it is. 

Eyes skyward once more, she watches a plane move across the clear winter sky, its green blinking light flashing rhythmically as it flies, sending out its monotonous morse code. 

Stepping back from the window, she moves to the closet to replace the screwdriver and then makes her way to the door, allowing herself one last look at her sister's room before turning the lights off and stepping back into the hallway. She swallows roughly.

With every step she takes down the stairs, with every foot of distance added between her and Willa's room, her mind eases. Her doubts, her jumbled thoughts -- they all seem to have stayed locked upstairs, hidden behind closed doors. And that'll do for tonight. She allows the bubbly music still filling the den to suffuse her system like a palate cleanser in 4/4 time. 

Back in the den, she does a slow twirl, inspecting her decorations one more time, searching for imperfections. She finds none. Nodding, she walks back to the kitchen and wrenches open the fridge. Reaching in, she pulls out the cold bottle of moscato by the neck, uncorks it with military-like efficiency, and pours herself a small glass. Tipping the glass back dangerously, it takes approximately 2.5 seconds for Waverly to chug the wine like a frat boy at a kegger. She'll never admit it to Wynonna, but after trying her specially ordered bottle of bubble gum sake awhile back, she had poured the rest of the bottle down the drain. 

_Much better._

With that out of the way and eyeing the clock by the back door, she finally grabs her perfect cupcake display and strides out to the front room, a woman on a mission. The icing is flawless, and the girls better appreciate these raspberry stuffed double chocolate cupcakes (thank you, Pinterest). This...feels normal. And all of this hard work, after all is said and done, still makes her feel proud. She's worked her hiney off today like any good hostess, and once everyone gets here, she's sure they'll all have a fantastic time, herself included. 

There's a knock at the door, and Waverly starts.

Standing tall, she straightens her dress, checks her hair, and takes a couple of deeps breaths.

 _I've got this. I can do this._

Pulling her shoulders back and nodding briefly to herself, she breathes deeply one more time before plastering an oversize smile on her face. She covers the distance to the door and grasps the familiar knob in her outstretched fingertips.

_It's showtime._


	3. Sunday Morning

_I haven’t had nearly enough coffee for this._

If Officer Haught’s being honest, at this moment it’s really more of a 50/50 split between a desire for about a gallon of coffee or the need for two -- or possibly six -- fingers of whiskey. Her face, however, reflects nothing but genuine concern. 

Chrissy Neadley, the boss’s daughter, stands before her, arms wrapped protectively around herself. Bless her heart. Standing out here being interviewed isn’t doing Chrissy any favors, but it’s imperative that they get a detailed witness statement before she leaves the scene. Unsurprisingly, Nicole is tapped to do the honors. Or rather she’s the only one on scene to whom the Sheriff trusts the care of his daughter, a nod to her intrinsic ability to juggle the rigors of the physical police work with ardent compassion when dealing with the citizens affected by crime, a quality sorely lacking in some of the more senior members of the team. 

Interviewing witnesses, particularly ones who have been exposed to something so scarring as the specter of death, is a delicate dance, one requiring the interviewer to be able to read their dance partner at a glance, to know how to make minute adjustments in their movements to elicit the desired response -- to know when to lead and when to be led. And Officer Haught is _really_ good at her job. As Chrissy once more elaborates on a section of her account, one they have been over several times before, albeit from a slightly different angle, the deputy uses the time to do two things: firstly, monitor the narrative for any inconsistencies or any additional clues as to the timeline of events during the night, and secondly, to surreptitiously study Chrissy’s eyes and demeanor for any sign of intoxicants or incoherency.

Good news? Chrissy is stone cold sober, and she’s being honest about what she’s seen (or believes to have seen). The bad news? Well...the bad news is that none of this makes a lick of sense. 

It’s not little things that aren’t adding up, either. Nope. It’s the big details, like why is someone posing as a delivery man and conning his way into Waverly’s house to attack her? Or why is there a second perpetrator outside who manages to kill HBIC from the other day in the diner when she tried to make a great escape in her car (because of course she’d just leave the others behind...of course she would)? Or why did they decide to wait a couple of hours before calling the attack into the authorities? And would someone, anyone, kindly explain why the actual fuck a guy who has been stabbed in the ear is still in need of being shot MULTIPLE times after the fact? 

Goddamn Purgatory.

She breathes deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose. In spite of the gloves, her hands ache with cold. A headache begins to blossom behind her eyes.

_I have been out here way too long for this. I need coffee..._

* * *

It was going on 2 a.m. when Nicole had finally left the station last night (this morning?), her body navigating the desolate city streets on autopilot, leading her steadfastly home. When she pushed open the door to her place, a tiny meow had greeted her from inside the darkened entryway. Flipping the light on, she looked down to see her cat blinking lazily up at her.

“I know, I know, sweetheart. Give me a sec.”

It took mere seconds to jettison the stetson and the duty belt and a couple more to shuck her boots. Before the cat could launch into a more vocal plea, Nicole doled out a handful of dry food from the pantry, patting the purring ball of fluff a few times on her head and stumbling toward the bathroom to get ready for bed.

Sleep claimed her within minutes, a consequence of long hours spent studying case files and the last vestiges of the alcohol coursing through her veins. The cat settled into the crook of her arm without preamble, the vibrations from the purrs a lullaby.

But sleep didn't keep her.

When the police band radio on the nightstand beside her suddenly blared to life, Nicole jerked awake, confused and annoyed when the images of her dream evaporated. She ran a hand slowly down her tired face and rubbed the sleep in her eyes. Technically, she was still the officer on call, even with her shift over, which meant this call-out was all hers.

_Perks of the job._

The county dispatcher's voice cleared, and the words that came through the airwaves stopped Nicole's heart dead in her chest.

“Earp homestead. Multiple wounded and/or believed dead. Please respond.”

It wasn’t like having a bucket of cold water thrown on her. That would have been cake. It was like awakening in the middle of the Arctic Ocean, choking and freezing, dread like an anchor around her chest. But then the adrenaline hit, hot, a lifeline that she snatched hold of like a vice. Her muscles moved of their own accord, responding to the adrenaline dump with practiced ease, and she repeated the process she’d undertaken no more than an hour previous, only this time in some sort of grim rewind. The cat skittered under the bed and watched the manic movement with wary eyes. Her stetson on and socked feet stuffed into her boots, she had grabbed her coat and sprinted out the door. 

She had raced through the county roads at speeds that would make even Wynonna blanch. Honestly, she was damned lucky she didn’t hit any lingering ice patches in her squad car, but there was no way in hell she was going to take her foot off that gas pedal before she reached the scene.

The entire drive there, only a few concrete thoughts entered her mind. 

_I should have been there._

_I could have protected her._

_I should have fucking been there for her._

While she may have set the land speed record racing out to the scene, for Nicole it was the longest drive of her life. Her thoughts added torture after torture with every fresh mile on the odometer. 

They say the hour before dawn is the darkest, but with two of Purgatory’s finest department-issued vehicles on scene, the Earp homestead pulsed with flashing reds and blues like some sort of macabre mood lighting. When Officer Haught arrived, the Sheriff himself stood on the front porch, involved in conversation with Wynonna. Her friend, Henry, was standing off to the side, rubbing a spot near his shoulder. Wynonna had eyed her as she approached and gave her a small nod and tight smile. Sheriff Neadley turned, gave her instructions on securing the scene, and then he ushered the witnesses inside the house. While the door was open, Nicole caught a fleeting glimpse of Waverly in the distance, safe, alive...the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, before the door fell shut. With that one question answered, the anchor weighing her down loosened its grip, giving the deputy the impetus she needed to get to work. 

The crime scene boys had arrived shortly after that, and Officer Haught had her hands full assisting their understaffed crew. When they finally rolled out just a little while ago, multiple black body bags weighing down the back of their van, the sheriff had gone ahead and left as well, but not before asking Nicole to stay and finish things up.

* * *

“And then I heard shouting...and more shots, but I didn’t see anything. Waverly’s friend...he told me I should stay inside, away from the windows. I’m sorry…”

Chrissy sniffles, her composure starting to peter out, and Nicole snaps her attention back guiltily to her witness, taking in the girl’s tired features once more. 

“You did great, Chrissy. Really great. Your dad will be proud, OK?” At this, a pained smile appears on Chrissy’s face, and Nicole’s heart breaks a little at the sight. She seems like a sweet kid. To see the ugliness of the world start to chip away at that, the seeds of self-doubt and anxiety trying to take root…well. Without thinking, she reaches out to touch Chrissy’s arm, an offer of comfort, a reminder that there’s good in this world, too. So much good. The front door creaks, and in her periphery, Nicole sees Wynonna stomping across the snow-covered yard toward her. 

“Why don’t you go on inside and warm up?” she suggests. Chrissy nods meekly before turning toward the homestead. 

Waverly steps out onto the porch in the distance, a heavy blanket draped around her shoulders to ward off the cold. Nicole allows herself a second to look at her from under her lashes, a surreptitious survey. This is the third time she’s caught a glimpse of Waverly since the call-out, and since she hasn’t actually gotten to speak with her, to hear directly from her own lips that she’s alright, a fact that is absolutely killing her right now, Nicole can’t seem to stop herself from at least verifying each and every time with her own eyes that Waverly is, in fact, in one piece. Maybe a little wrung out and subdued, but safe. Nicole thinks she might be favoring her left arm a little, but with limited data she can’t draw any solid conclusions on that observation. 

Turning to Wynonna, Nicole gets right to the point. “Your sister OK?” She’s a little shocked at how light she manages to keep her tone. This question has been clawing at her throat ever since she first got the call a couple of hours ago. Hell, it’s a wonder she isn’t spitting up blood with every word she speaks. Half a dozen times she almost gave in, the temptation to abandon her assigned post and check on Waverly in person, face-to-face, burning in her veins. But there’s a job to do -- and boundaries. The kicker is that it’s just not her place, no matter how much she wishes it was. So instead she’s here, still outside in the winter dawn, latching on to the next best thing.  
She tastes iron on her tongue.

“Yeah, well...she’s being Waverly,” Wynonna responds, somehow managing to find a happy medium between nonchalant and annoyed. It’s the perfect big sister answer. 

A nod of her head, a quiet exhale, and the deputy’s heartbeat calms immediately in response. Some of the anxiety ebbs away, the tide finally turning. Wynonna’s face is turned aside, and Nicole studies her in profile briefly, noting the stress lines around her eyes and the exhaustion in her movements. 

“Chrissy said she--,” Nicole pauses while deciding just how she wants to phrase this, “--scissored a stripper.” 

Yeah, OK, she’ll admit that’s purely for Wynonna’s sake, and judging by the barely contained smirk on her face, the joke hits its target with pinpoint accuracy. For the first time in hours, Nicole feels a small grin tugging at the corners of her own mouth, a mirror of the one threatening to break free on Wynonna’s face. At the station last night, before things devolved into heated accusations and childish insults, they had found some common ground. 

_Sharing a whole bottle of whiskey will do that to you, apparently._

The point is -- she knows that under that shit-kicking tough girl exterior, Wynonna is eaten up with worry (and probably a good helping of guilt) about her little sister, and seeing her attacked like this must have the older Earp spinning off-kilter something fierce. So in the absence of whiskey, a little levity will have to suffice.

Out of the corner of her eye she catches movement -- Waverly is reaching up and wrapping her arms around Chrissy, a gesture so effortless and pure, and just so...Waverly...that it makes Nicole’s heart ache. 

And with that, Nicole turns serious. “So. Any idea why your homestead was targeted?” she starts. “I mean besides the fact that it was yours?” Her voice grows harder by the time she’s done with her question, the teasing smile from before vanishing as quickly as it came. Well, even levity can’t last forever, and Nicole needs some answers. 

Weird and Wynonna seem to go together. Man in the mirror murders people? Yeah no, she’s not ready to let that one go just yet. The Sheriff seems more than willing to turn a blind eye, to let everything slide. And if this was just Black Badge stuff, just Deputy Marshall Dolls and Wynonna and their X-Files, she might have more patience herself.

But it’s not.

She just has to look back to the porch, to see Waverly up there in her party dress, bruises beginning to bloom on her neck, comforting a shaken Chrissy, to steel her resolve. This attack wasn’t on Wynonna. It wasn’t on Dolls. 

It was on Chrissy. And Stephanie.

And Waverly...

Forget the coffee. She feels her blood heating in her veins, and the chill of the winter morning recedes. 

Wynonna eyes her, catching the change in tone and takes a moment to decide on a course of action. “You know what, we should get some breakfast. I could _murder_ a stack of pancakes.” She continues, subdued, “And then we’ll talk. Really talk.” 

There’s a chance Wynonna’s being genuine, but Nicole is reluctant to take her at face value. When she pressed for information last night at the cop shop on the types of cases Black Badge takes on, Wynonna had parried and deflected like a pro, turning the discussion into a series of base accusations against Nicole, which had left the deputy feeling wrong-footed and pissed off -- and still completely without answers. So no, at this point, she’s not incredibly inclined to let anything slide. It’s five in the goddamn morning, her throat still raw. Bitterness and frustration cover her face like a shroud. 

“OK,” Nicole bites out, nodding her head patronizingly. “You gonna help me understand why some of these cases are too complex for local flatfoots?” 

If this shit is going to keep happening, if she’s going to get drawn into these bizarre crime scenes and continue to see the effect it’s having on Purgatory’s citizens, then she needs to know what’s going on. Read her in, make her take an oath -- hell, make her pinky swear, it doesn’t matter. Waverly’s firmly wrapped up in this thing now, and if that’s how it’s going to be, then she needs to know. Nicole is determined to protect her as best she can, even if it’s on the periphery -- if that’s how Waverly wants it -- but she can’t hope to be worth a damn if she doesn’t know what she’s up against. She can’t plan a defense (or an attack, for that matter) without knowing the terrain, without knowing your enemy. Well, she _could,_ but she’d fail, and failure isn’t an option. Not when the stakes are so high. 

She feels the weight of the Colt 1911 on her right hip, the scratch of the polyester uniform pants on her legs, the pressure of the standard issue stetson atop her head. They pale in comparison to the real deal, though. She’s a cop. It’s what she does; it’s who she is. She’s sworn an oath to protect the people of her jurisdiction -- with her life, if need be. Whether it’s Chrissy, or Wynonna, or yes, even Waverly, she’s sworn to protect them all. There are days when her job is easy, but here lately? Things are happening in this town. Weird things. Cruel things. And she can’t seem to protect her people like she’s supposed to. Sometimes she feels more like Atlas, muscles shaking, sweat dotting her brow, trying to hold back the sky. The situation is untenable -- something has to give.

This isn’t a request for information. There’s nothing polite in her question. This -- this is a demand. And there’s only one acceptable answer.

Wynonna looks Nicole straight in the eyes before responding, “I’ll do my best.” 

The lack of hesitation catches Nicole off guard. Maybe Wynonna is realizing she could use the help. Maybe after that bottle of whiskey she’s starting to see Nicole as less of a country bumpkin and more of a comrade in arms. Whatever it is, her gut is telling her that this is the real deal. Just like that, the frustration ebbs, the heat in her veins abating in equal measure. 

The deputy searches Wynonna’s face for any hint of deception. She finds none.

Instead, she reads worry on the oldest Earp’s face, her brow creased, her eyes anxious, her head bowed. Wynonna is fidgeting, staring at the phone in her hands like she’s trying to will it to life with the power of wishful thinking. 

“Your boss gonna be OK with that?” Soft concern replaces the frustration in the deputy’s voice. When Wynonna had shown up at the station last night, well on her way to drunk, one of the first things she did was crack a joke about Deputy Marshall Dolls possibly being dead. She had tried to play it off as a joke, but c’mon, Nicole’s not an idiot. Wynonna won’t drop the badass routine long enough to be vulnerable, so instead she cracks jokes, wrapping herself in sarcasm like it's armor. But Nicole knows how to read people, and what she read in that joke last night is what she’s reading on Wynonna’s face right now -- real concern. 

“Boss isn’t here.” The words are meant to sound nonchalant. The unflappable Wynonna Earp. But her face betrays her, her smile empty. The words “I’m scared” might as well be written in sharpie on her forehead. 

The cop in her wants to pry, to question, to search for leads. But that can wait. Hell, maybe they can solve all the world’s problems over these pancakes. For now, the friend in her says simply, “OK.” 

“Guess you’re my ride.” With that, Wynonna turns and begins to walk around to the passenger side of the squad car, leaving Nicole with nothing between her and the front porch but empty space. 

It’s kind of like gravity. That’s the only way Nicole knows how to describe it. She can feel it -- the pull of it, and she can’t seem to gather the strength to fight it.

She doesn’t want to.

So when Wynonna walks away, Nicole’s eyes do what they always do: they gravitate to Waverly. Always. But this time, when she seeks her out, when she goes to reassure herself that, yes, Waverly is in fact OK, her heart stutters in her chest like it momentarily forgot what it was supposed to be doing.

Because Waverly is watching her.

When their eyes lock, it’s as if Waverly is embarrassed to have been caught, and she offers a bashful wave and a hint of a smile before averting her gaze, suddenly finding something very interesting to look at on the porch. That day in Shorty’s, the first time they had met, Waverly had tripped over all of her words and rambled right into a puddle, which turned out to be the most endearing introduction Nicole could have imagined. Her wave, her bashful smile just now -- they feel like the non-verbal version of that conversation, all adorable and awkward and radiant. The smile that blooms on Nicole’s face is an automatic reaction, but it’s only a fraction of the warmth she feels in her bones. It’s the beach in August all over again, the snow reimagined as white sand, and her own personal sun standing self-consciously on the porch in the distance. 

When Waverly pulls her gaze back, there’s no sign of embarrassment or bashfulness. Instead, her smile is slow, deliberate. Direct. It’s like she’s harnessing the full force of the sun and channeling it directly at Nicole, who feels her blood boil and rush in return, her heart hammering in her chest.

_Shit._

The pull has never been stronger.

It’s like the forces of nature are all conspiring against her, compelling her to place one foot in front of another and stride up to that porch. But she can’t She can’t. It’s just not her place...right now. And it’s not the right time...yet.

But damn wouldn’t it be so easy, to throw herself into the sun, into warm oblivion?

By some miracle of mankind, Nicole’s muscles snap to attention and do what she isn’t sure she can -- they strain against the natural order, forcing her to turn, to move, to break the gravitational pull. Without a second glance, she climbs into the squad, breathes deeply, and starts the car. She’s Atlas, settling the sky atop her shoulders once more. 

She keeps that image -- Waverly Earp, smiling at her from her front porch -- for the next time the weight on her shoulders feels too heavy, for the next time the cold tries to force its way in, her own personal sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, first multi-chapter fic is in the books. So we all know what happens after this particular scene ends -- and they've confirmed just how much that smile meant to Nicole, which, while awful considering the circumstances, is also incredibly powerful, and I kind of love it.
> 
> And now that 1x09 has aired (!!!!!!!), I feel another fic coming on...


End file.
